An Illusion of Stars
by StopTalkingAtMe
Summary: Sometimes Malcolm's life feels like a string of humiliations, anyway, so why not get rat-arsed at Boylan's and risk humiliating himself further? Shortly after the incident with the amnesia outbreak at Outpost Three, Malcolm reflects on his relationship with Elisabeth and the first time he ever met her.


**A/N: Oh, Terra Nova. Returning to this show now, it makes me so sad it never got a second series. But, oh the potential for a fanfiction writer with an unfortunate tendency to bite off more than she can chew...**

 **I'm planning something longer, but in the meantime here's something simple. Apparently I ship excrutiating awkward one-sided Malcolm/Elisabeth.**

 **Rated T for language. All comments are hugely appreciated. Seriously, they make my day.**

* * *

 **An Illusion of Stars**

He shouldn't have lied. In retrospect Malcolm knew it had been a stupid thing to do. Idiotic really, and dear God it had backfired in a spectacular fashion.

Nothing ever seemed to happen quietly in the Cretaceous era. Probably unfair to blame Taylor for that, but it was still tempting to try.

He lifted his glass up, tilting it to catch the light. A trickle of sweat ran down under the collar of his linen jacket. The scent of an aromatic mushroom stew mingled with the smell of sweat from the soldiers on the table behind him.

No surprise that travelling back in time 85 million years would turn out to be a bit of a culture shock, but what had surprised him most were the smells. He'd gone from a sterile empty place to a place which reeked of human sweat and animal dung. Of plants that stank like rotting flesh and trees laden with blossom, the sweet perfume so heady it made him dizzy. Of the soft earthy smell that rose from the ground after it had rained. Of the salt-rimed scent of the ocean, clean and briny and lingering on his skin.

Fresh air. It was a concept he hadn't been prepared for. One he hadn't known how to prepare for. He'd never breathed it in his life, even in the wealthier areas where the air was filtered and lifeless. No one smelled of sweat there, not within the rarefied air of the domes. But there was nothing living either, unless you counted people. Artificial grass beneath the feet, and Oxford's dreaming spires stretching up towards the artificial sky.

He hadn't fit in there either, although once he'd met Elisabeth Sharma...

Christ, _Elisabeth._

He pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing.

 _I shouldn't have lied to her._

It wasn't like he'd meant anything by it. Because it was true: she was the best person for the job. No way Taylor would have taken her on otherwise. But Malcolm had dreaded her finding out that he'd requested her. God forbid she should think he'd pulled strings to get her here, when her name would have been at the top of his list even without the history between them.

Trouble was he was too sodding English. A socially inept idiot, still tiptoeing around the minefield of social conventions 85 million years BC.

He hadn't wanted things to be awkward.

 _Well, they're awkward now, aren't they?_ He swallowed the last of the liquor. _You bloody twat._

Sometimes his life felt like a string of excruciating humiliations, chief amongst them that moment of dawning horror in the infirmary when he realised who the man beside him was. That moment when she'd introduced them, "Malcolm, this is Jim, my husband," and Malcolm's stomach felt like it was trying to escape from his belly by way of his throat.

And all he could think of to say was, "But you're supposed to be in prison." About the only thing he had to be grateful for was that he'd managed to keep his bloody mouth shut for once, as the idiotic fantasy he'd nurtured of telling her the truth years down the line, of the two of them _laughing_ about it, came crashing down around him.

 _Something to tell the grandchildren._

And of course the bastard had to go and be a copper, didn't he? Just Malcolm's sodding luck.

Boylan had a new employee. Some kid who looked far too young to be working behind the bar. Even through his drunken haze Malcolm knew there was something about the kid he ought to be aware of. He squinted over the rim of his glass, studying the kid. Dark hair and eyes that looked familiar. Thick eyebrows. He must have come in on the tenth pilgrimage, but even though he hadn't been in Terra Nova for more than a couple of weeks he looked like he'd been born here. The gleam of perspiration on his skin made him look bronzed and handsome. It usually made Malcolm look flustered and nervous and sweaty...

He went to toss back the rest of his drink, found the glass empty. "Damn."

"Another one, Malcolm?" Boylan asked.

"Yes, please." And he sighed, another memory flashing through his head. The reason why he was drinking in the first place. He'd been trying to forget about the débâcle at Outpost Three. But his back still ached from where Jim Shannon had slammed him down on the table, and every time he was close to forgetting the sharp stabbing pain in his skull was there to remind him.

Yet another thing he'd lied to Elisabeth about, pretending he didn't remember her husband punching his lights out. Not that Malcolm blamed the man for a moment; he had thoroughly deserved it.

 _You and me_ , his father's voice was saying in his mind. _We don't ever get to forget._

Malcolm groaned, pressing his hands over his face.

"Is he okay?" the kid said.

"Don't mind him, son," Boylan said, and even with Malcolm's hands covering his face, the Australian's grin was almost palpable. "He's just heartsick."

Malcolm dropped his hands, and glared at Boylan. The kid was leaning against the bar, smirking. "Oh yeah? Who for?" And then his smile slipped a little, his expression becoming almost sympathetic. His hand tugged at a silvery pendant around his neck. "Did you leave someone behind?"

Malcolm opened his mouth, but Boylan interrupted before he could speak. "He's still pining for a girl he met at university, isn't that right, Malcolm?"

"No, that's..." He pointed a wavering finger at them. "That's wholly untrue." The world teetered around him. It had been a while since he'd been this drunk. Not since the early days of Terra Nova, those awful few months when he'd been so utterly terrified that he'd done the wrong thing.

"What was her name?" the kid asked.

Boylan jumped hastily in. Again. "It doesn't matter what her name is, Josh. Go and see if table three needs clearing."

 _Josh_. Malcolm squinted down at his drink again. Something about that name. He could remember seeing a Josh on the list of the tenth pilgrimage, but his thoughts were too confused. He finished the drink and set the glass down on the bar.

Boylan watched him. "Maybe it's time you went home, Malcolm." There was an uncharacteristic gentle note in his voice. "You're drunk."

"And here I was thinking that was rather the point of alcohol. I'll have another."

"Malcolm..."

"Tom." His voice was tight and strained. Tears prickled at his eyes, as Elisabeth's face flashing through his memories. How her body had felt pressed against him, how she'd tilted her head up to kiss him. And now he'd ruined everything. "Please."

A twist of Boylan's lips and then he nodded. "All right. One more. But then I'm cutting you off."

"Oh, come on–"

"I've no choice. You know what Taylor'd do to me if he saw you in this state?" He poured Malcolm another glass of hooch. "Last one. But this one's on the house, you bloody sot."

"Thanks. Hey, who's the new kid?"

"You mean Josh?" Boylan glanced around. The kid had got talking to Skye and then Malcolm remembered; that's where he'd seen him before. Hanging around with Taylor's ward, who was smart and beautiful and clearly half in love with the boy already. The lucky bastard. "He's a good lad. Misses his girlfriend in 2149. And you know me, Malcolm. I always did have a soft spot for lovelorn idiots."

A flush crept over his face. His fingers closed around the glass. Boylan's assessing gaze rested on him, and then the man's tone shifted. "Besides I thought having the new sheriff's son working for me might help grease a few wheels."

Malcolm laughed, bringing the glass up to his lips. "So he's the new sheriff's so–" And then it sank in. His eyes widened and he stared at Boylan over the rim of the glass, his voice urgent. "He's _Jim Shannon's_ son?"

"I thought you knew," Boylan said, in an innocent voice that suggested otherwise.

"I..." He had known. Somewhere. If he hadn't been so drunk, he would have realised straight away. Boylan was right: he was a drunken sot. Furious with himself, he slammed the glass down on the bar.

"Hey, watch it. I won't be getting any new glasses through until the twelfth pilgrimage. Unless you want to be drinking out of an ovosaur's skull–"

"Bloody Shannons everywhere!" Malcolm said, and it wasn't until he noticed Boylan's grimace that he realised how loudly he'd spoken. The kid had overheard, and was staring at Malcolm with an expression caught between amusement and confusion.

"Um... I-I was just saying... Um." He glanced at Boylan for help, but the bastard was leaning back against the bar, grinning. Malcolm turned back to Josh. He could feel the tips of his ears burning. "They're, uh... a fecund pair, your parents."

The kid continued to stare at him.

"Um..." Malcolm raised his glass to the kid. "Congratulations?"

A snort from Boylan. Malcolm glanced at him, saw the man had turned his back, his shoulders shaking in helpless stifled laughter.

"Thanks," Josh said. "I... think."

Boylan heaved in a breath and turned around, wiping his eyes. "Josh, uh..." He pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to laugh. "Go and see if Annie needs any help in the kitchen," he managed finally, his voice strangled.

The kid vanished with a puzzled glance over his shoulder at Malcolm, who gave him a little wave. When the kid gone he sank down on the bar, arms wrapped around the top of his head. "Oh God."

Boylan clapped him on the shoulder. "You should get drunk more often," he said. "I haven't laughed so hard in years. 'They're a fecund pair, your parents'," he said, in a reasonable facsimile of Malcolm's accent.

"Oh God."

"'Congratulations?' Malcolm, you drunken bastard, it's the question mark that makes it."

"Oh _God_!" Malcolm thumped his forehead against the wood of the bar, then wished he hadn't, as the building headache stabbed through his skull. He didn't have a concussion – he'd been lucky, all things considered – but that didn't mean he wasn't still tender.

As he lifted his head, the world spiralled around him and the mess that had happened at Outpost Three returned to him in full force. That moment in the lab, just a second of inattention, letting his thoughts flit for a moment to Elisabeth, and he'd lost his way. Forgotten for a moment where he was and who he was. And now he remembered her eyes, filled with soft confusion, the way she'd wriggled against him. Trying to pull away, and he'd thought– oh God, he'd thought she was just kidding around, trying to get him to concentrate on the work. And all he could do was look at her and think how badly he wanted to kiss her...

The humiliation of it when he'd come to, staring up at the quiet rage in Jim Shannon's eyes, and realising what had happened. It had felt almost painful, a hard knotted ball in his chest.

Boylan no longer looked amused. "I'm sorry. I should have warned you about the kid."

"No." Malcolm lifted the glass, stared at the remaining alcohol. He no longer felt like drinking. What he'd already drunk and the remains of his dinner sat like a dead weight in his stomach. It was going to be a bad night. And almost certainly a worse morning. Taylor was not going to be impressed.

 _Taylor_ _can go fuck himself._

"No," he said again. "I should have known. I-I should have recognised him." He lifted his head and looked unsteadily at Boylan. "He looks like his mother."

"Maybe a bit."

"More like his sister, I suppose. But he's got his mother's..." _His mother's eyes._ He set the glass down on the bar. "I'd better go..."

"Not a bad idea. Will I see you tomorrow for a hair of the dog?"

"Oh God." Malcolm's stomach lurched and he pressed a hand over his mouth.

"Maybe breakfast? I might be able to wangle some bacon. There's some left over from the tenth."

Now that was a tempting suggestion. "Wait, _real_ bacon?" He raised his eyebrows hopefully. "Not that desiccated fake stuff?"

"If you're up to it."

Malcolm sighed. "Not sure I will be." He never had never been good with hangovers. There had been some days were he hadn't been able to drag his sorry carcass out of bed until the early afternoon. He never had been much of a drinker.

"Best thing for a hangover, Malcolm. A fried breakfast. Bacon, eggs. The works." Boylan paused. "You go straight home, yeah? You want someone to make sure you don't get eaten by a dinosaur on the way?"

"No, I'll be okay."

Boylan looked doubtful but nodded, raising his hand in farewell. Malcolm made his way through the bar, thinking that all he needed was to get some fresh air, away from the feeling that everyone was watching him. And Josh was back from the kitchen, looking amused. "Goodnight, Dr Wallace," he said, smirking.

The little shit. But looking at him now, Malcolm was furious with himself. The kid was obviously a Shannon; with his dark eyes and thick glossy hair, he looked so much like his mother, but that insufferably smug attitude? That was 100% Jim Shannon.

Outside it was warm and humid, and away from the smell of human sweat – other than his own of course – he could smell the blossom on the air. And grilling meat, which made his stomach churn. Sweat pooled in his lower back, his cotton shirt sticking to his skin. And he knew Boylan was right – he should go straight home, sink into bed without even bothering to undress. Get as much sleep as he could until the full force of the hangover hit him in the morning.

Instead his weaving unsteady route took him past the infirmary. The light was muted outside, shining in the darkness. A softly beckoning beacon. He heard the chirp of insects, and he hesitated.

 _It's a bad idea,_ he thought. _I should listen to Boylan. Go home._

But he didn't. How could he?

* * *

He'd met her at a party in Oxford. Not his party, although it was technically being held in the house he shared with a handful of students he barely knew and liked even less. The house was within the dome, so the rent ate up a massive chunk of his grant money; he had to work two jobs just so he could afford to eat without conducting secretive midnight raids on the communal fridge. That night was the one night he had off all week, and he'd been planning on studying, burying himself in his books, but the music set both his nerves and teeth on edge, so he'd escaped to the garden instead. With the air still, all he could smell was himself: the reek of stale beer and other people's e-cig vapour clinging to his clothes and hair. And there was no sound either, nothing but the blaring music. No insects chirping, not even the sound of the wind stirring the trees.

He sat on the bench and stared at the sky above. He'd never seen so many stars in his life before, not until he came to Oxford; within the dome he could pick out the individual constellations, and the moon sat heavy and fat and full.

Shame none of it was real.

Just projections on the underside of the dome, shifting to reflect what the sky might have looked like a century or so before, before they'd blotted it out with pollution. Before they'd choked themselves.

Only the rich and the lucky got to see a sky like that these days, and Malcolm certainly wasn't one of the rich. There were times when he wasn't convinced he was all that lucky either.

He lifted his head at a soft noise behind him, saw a woman standing on the steps that led to the house, a glass of punch in her hand. He gave her a cursory glance, then stared at the sky again, wondering what it really looked like outside of the coddling safety of the dome. No doubt it was raining; this was England after all.

When she didn't light a cigarette, he expected her to go back inside. Instead she spoke. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she said. Her voice was soft. Malcolm, who was nowhere near as drunk as he planned to be, was already processing and categorising her accent – polished RP just like his, but hers, he suspected, was the real thing. She was one of them, a rich girl who'd probably spent all her life in pampered luxury beneath one dome or another.

Some of the kids here had never even seen the real sky: purplish with fog, streaked with dirty yellow clouds. They'd never breathed air so thick it left rebeathers caked in gritty, greasy residue.

But Malcolm had, and there were times like this when he almost missed it. At least it was _real_.

"It's fake," he said, and, although he hadn't meant to, he let bitterness creep into his voice. "The sky, the stars. None of it's real."

"I know what you mean." She came down the steps, and sank onto the bench beside him. And despite himself, Malcolm found himself studying her. He'd been right about her accent, he thought. There was a gloss to her, a thickness and shine to her hair that spoke of a childhood where she'd never known what it was to be hungry. Her clothes were sleek and understated. But her hair was caught up in a loose ponytail like she couldn't even be bothered to try – and why should she need to? She was rich. What did she care about the struggle to look the part? About spending hours hunting through second-hand shops in a hopeless impossible quest for clothes that didn't look second-hand? She didn't need to look the part: she _was_ the part.

But even then, he could see she was beautiful. Of Indian extraction, and her bright, intelligent eyes rested on him in a way that made him shift in his seat. It made him uncomfortable, being looked at; he preferred to be invisible. To go unnoticed. It was why he'd had to escape from the party. When he drank too much, the hard flat vowels of his early life in London started to slip back in.

"It's a strange place," she continued. "It's beautiful, but at the same time it feels so empty, don't you think?"

"I think we're very lucky to be here," he said, before he could stop himself. Immediately he cringed at how pompous and priggish he sounded. He waited for her to roll her eyes, but instead, she smiled at him, her eyes filling with amusement. It was a friendly smile, but he hadn't been expecting it, and it jabbed at him, reminded him of how intolerably rude he'd just been. Besides, she really was beautiful.

His cheeks burned. "I'm sorry," he said. He shifted, running his hand through his uneven badly cut hair. He took a breath, took a risk. "Did I just sound like a total idiot? I did, didn't I?"

She laughed, the sound unforced and friendly. "You did a bit," she said, and then her laughter faded. She took a sip of punch, and shrugged. "You were right, though. We are very lucky to be here." Now her tone of mock-solemnity made him smile.

"Look, can we start again?" _And this time let's pretend I'm not a twat._ He held out his hand. "I'm Malcolm Wallace."

She shook his hand, still smiling. "Elisabeth Sharma. And I already know who you are, Malcolm."

"Oh?" He stiffened. "Um, why–" A memory of Charlie's drawling voice ringing out across the lecture room: _Wallace, you pleb._

"We're in Cells and Systems Biology together?"

"Right." He paused, drank some beer. "Yes, yes of course. Sorry, I um... I remember."

"Do you?" She rested her chin on her curled fingers. And now he felt uncomfortable for a different reason, because she really was beautiful. "Why do I get the impression that you're lying and don't remember me at all?"

"I am a terrible liar," he admitted. His head leaned on the back of the bench, his voice lowering. "But I should have remembered someone as beautiful as you. I can't think why I didn't." She smiled, and looked away, tucking her hair behind her ear. And was that his imagination or was she actually blushing?

D _amn, Malcolm, you smooth bastard._

And he took another swig of beer. "So who do you know at the party?"

"Hardly anyone, really. Charlie invited me along. I'm just here to make up the numbers."

"I very much doubt that," he said, laughing. His house mate, always an eye out for attractive girls. "If you think that then you don't know Charlie at all."

"Bit of a player?" She raised her eyebrows in a way that suggested she knew exactly what Charlie was like. Then she tilted her head towards the house. "Not really your thing?"

He shook his head. The truth was he couldn't bear his housemate's parties, and not just because of the god awful music. Charlie's rugby friends yapping about economics and politics and how the other half lived as if any of them had a sodding clue about how the other half lived. And the longer he spent around them the drunker and the crueller they got, the more Charlie wanted to prod and poke at Malcolm's weak spots.

A swig of his beer, a curl of his lip. _Your father's into politics, right, Wallace?_

"No, nor mine," she said. "But it's all part of student life, or so my sister keeps telling me."

And now he was starting to remember her. Quiet in the lectures, which was probably why he hadn't remembered her when he should have done. Her dark hair falling over her face as she bent over her plex. And now his gaze was resting on her. She met his eyes, glanced away, a faint smile on her lips.

And afterwards, he walked her back to her flat, the two of them staring up at the illusion of stars. She had her own place, but it wasn't as ostentatious or showy as he'd been expecting. And for a moment they hesitated outside, the two of them glancing at each other.

Malcolm rubbed the back of his head. "I should... um... Well, good night."

Elisabeth kissed him. A gentle uncertain kiss. He went still for a moment, then wrapped his hand around the back of her head and pulling her close. And overhead the false lights burned in the heavens.

* * *

Before he even knew what he as doing, Malcolm found himself walking into the infirmary. It was quiet, the lights dimmed, a single sleeping patient in one of the biobeds. Elisabeth was at the desk, bent over her plex, while the nurse monitored the readings on the biobed. Malcolm stopped in the doorway. He was on the verge of spinning on his heel and walking straight out again when Elisabeth saw him and it was far too late.

"Malcolm. Was there something you wanted?"

He swayed in the doorway, already feeling like an idiot. "Hello Elisabeth. Um..."

Her brows knitted. "Are you... drunk?"

"I might have had one or two. Or... or six." He still had time to claim he'd zoned out and come here by mistake, escape without any further embarrassment. He'd had enough of that lately. That's what he would do, if he had any sense. And then before he could stop himself, he was stepping deeper into the infirmary.

Elisabeth stood up and moved around the table towards him. There was something cautious about her movements, and he froze. It felt like a fist had clamped around his throat so tight he couldn't breath. he'd just flashed back to Outpost Three, to finding himself overwhelmed by a memory of her vanilla-scented hair spilling across his pillow. Shame and guilt burned its path over his cheeks. That Jim Shannon had been forced to intervene... And he was too afraid to bring himself to look at her, in case he saw fear in her eyes;. He didn't think he could bear it if she was afraid of him.

And then she said his name and he couldn't do anything but look at her. Relief flooded him like a tide; there was nothing in her eyes but amusement and exasperation and warmth.

"I'm finishing up the report on what happened at Outpost Three," she said.

"It can wait until tomorrow. You should get some sleep."

"Look who's talking," she said, laughing. "If I'd known you were going to go to Boylan's I would have strapped you to a biobed. Honestly, Malcolm. What were you thinking?"

"I'm not sure I was," he admitted. He still wasn't.

She was silent for a few moments, studying him. Then she sighed and tucked her hair behind her ear in an unthinking gesture that made his throat ache. "Anyway, I wanted to get it done, and besides..." She paused, chewing on her lip. "Look, I know the research Dr Joslyn was doing wasn't authorised but I think you should take a look at his work anyway. I think he was onto something. I'd like your blessing to study his findings, perhaps even do some additional research of my own, and send the results back to 2149 when the portal reopens."

And while she talked, his gaze focused on the curve of her neck. The dips and hollows in her skin. Thinking about a time when he'd pressed his lips against her throat and she'd whispered his name, reached back to knot her fingers in his hair.

"Malcolm?"

"Yes!" He blinked, returning to the real world. "Yes, sorry. I think that's an excellent idea. Um..." Across the infirmary the nurse glanced their way. Malcolm swallowed, his mouth dry. "Could I have a word, Elisabeth?"

She glanced back towards her plex. "Can it wait until tomorrow? I'm a little busy..."

"I... I don't think it can, no."

She paused, staring up at him, and then she followed him outside. The warmth of the night felt like arms wrapping around him. He took a breath, breathing in the scent of the flowers, the distant smell of the jungle. Far above them the stars burned. The real stars, no longer an illusion. Perhaps he was still suffering from the after-effects of the amnesia virus because for a moment he felt like he was back in the past, reliving the first time he'd ever met her.

She said his name, her voice soft, and his gaze met hers. And every word he'd so carefully planned on his way here was snatched out of reach like a fading dream. Because he could smell the scent of vanilla on her hair and the smell felt like a punch to his gut.

Instead, he found himself saying, "Do you ever think about Oxford?"

"Malcolm, you're drunk." The amusement was gone. There was nothing in her eyes but sadness now. "You should go home."

"No no, no. Why do people keep telling me that? I need to tell you something, Elisabeth. I..." And he swallowed.

"I think it can wait for tomorrow, don't you?"

"It really can't."

"Malcolm–"

He took a breath, because if he didn't say it now he was never going to say it. "I'm _sorry_ , Elisabeth. For what happened back at Outpost Three. When I... um... When I tried to kiss you. If I'd been in my right mind, I would never have–"

"Malcolm, there's no need to apologise. You were sick."

He rested his hand on her arm. And for an instant, she stiffened, her gaze darting up to his. He dropped his hand quickly. "Please, Elisabeth. Just let me..." He paused, tried not to think what would happen if Jim Shannon happened to walk by. Tried not to think about her hair spilling across his pillow. About her soft sleep-thickened voice murmuring his name.

He stared down at the ground, rubbed the back of his neck. When she said nothing, he forced himself to meet her gaze. "I lied to you. When we met. I pretended it was a surprise but the truth is I knew you'd be here. I'm the one who put your name forward–"

"I know." Her voice so soft. It stopped him, made him stumble over his words. Shame burned through him along with an image of Jim Shannon telling her the truth, of the two of them laughing at him. What a fool he was. And it was no more than he deserved.

"Jim told you," he said, numbly.

"No, Malcolm." She shook her head. "I _guessed_. For God's sake, I'm not an idiot."

"When?"

"The moment you told me you were Chief Science Officer here." She raised her eyebrows. "Did you seriously expect me to believe you'd let Commander Taylor bring someone in without so much as glancing at their CV? Give me some credit."

He sagged. She'd known. All along, she'd _known_. A flush burning his cheeks. "It's not... I mean..." He couldn't meet her gaze. "I don't want you to think..." And he trailed off because he couldn't look at her any more. He wanted to make her understand: that he'd put her name forward, because she was adaptable and compassionate, with a burning love for research. That she was exactly what Terra Nova needed.

But at the centre sat the speck of grit at the heart of a pearl, and like a pearl his hopes and dreams had coalesced around it. Because even if she hadn't been the best person for the job, he might still have put her name forward, because even now, twenty years later, there were times when she was all that he could think about. Because he'd hoped that maybe Terra Nova would prove to be a second chance, not just for humanity, but for him.

And she looked at him and knew. Even when he'd been lying to himself as well as to her husband. And while Jim played detective, poking around and investigating, all Elisabeth Shannon née Sharma had to do was look at him and she _knew_.

He laughed, tears pricking at his eyes. "You know, you really are brilliant."

"And you're an idiot when you're drunk." Her lips curved into a smile, but her eyes were sad. "And the answer's yes, by the way."

A poor choice of words on her part. He inhaled sharply, before he realised the question he thought she was answering had remained unvoiced. "To...?"

"You asked whether I ever thought about Oxford."

"Ah." He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yes, I remember. Sorry." And then he leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I don't know if you've noticed but I'm a little bit drunk." She laughed, the familiar bright sound that made his heart ache even now. The sound lent him courage. "Any regrets?" he asked.

"I have children, Malcolm. You're not allowed to have regrets once you've got kids. Them's the rules. So no. No regrets." She rested her hand on his arm. "But I do wonder sometimes what might have been."

What might have been. The children he could have had with her, if he hadn't been such a stuck-in-his-ways principled idiot. If he hadn't left it too late. He'd had his chance with her and he'd buggered it up royally.

She pulled him forward, pressed a chaste kiss on his cheek.

"What was that for? " he asked.

"To say thank you," she told him softly. "For putting my name forward. Back in Chicago, Maddie was sick, and with Jim in Golad... Well, things were bad." She shivered and he resisted the urge to slip his arm around her back and pull her close. Instead he shoved his hands into his pockets, and stared up at the stars. A meteor streaked through the sky, and Elisabeth drew in a sharp breath. A harsh jagged sound. When he glanced at her, he saw tears shining in her eyes. "You saved us, Malcolm. And this..." She swept her hand around at what they could see of the colony. "It really is a second chance."

His heart leapt again with idiotic pointless hope, but of course she wasn't talking about their relationship – she was talking about her _family_. Her three perfect children. The husband she clearly adored.

He took her hand and squeezed it. Smiled at her. "Any time."

And the funny thing was he kind of meant it. Because if nothing else, at least she was happy. It wasn't much, but if it was all he was going to get he'd take it.

She squeezed his hand back, and for a moment they stood staring up at the stars, fingers intertwined. "I always wondered what the stars really looked like," she murmured.

"Well, now you know." He drew in a breath, extricated his fingers from hers. "I'd better..."

"Yeah." She smiled. Genuine, friendly, and just faintly wistful. "And you'll go straight home?"

"Of course."

"And drink some water before you go to bed. I remember what you're like with a hangover."

"Oh God." He groaned. "Don't remind me. Goodnight, Elisabeth."

And as she vanished inside, he hesitated on the doorstep of the infirmary for a long few moments, the warm breeze on his face.

Somewhere beyond the gates a carnotaurus bellowed. It sounded close, but he knew from experience it was just the way the echoes worked in the valley. The rains were coming, and he dropped his head back and gazed up at the stars for one last time before he started home. Enjoying this world away from the polluted streets of his childhood and the sterile stagnation of his adult life.

It was a funny thing;. Considering his choice to come to Terra Nova was the most terrifying decision he'd ever made, one which had ripped his life out by the roots and could never be unmade, it was the only thing in his life that he didn't regret. Not even for a millisecond. Even though Taylor frightened him sometimes. Even though he didn't always think the colony was heading in the right direction. Taylor meant well, he was sure, but driven idealistic men were often the most dangerous.

His father had taught him that.

But Elisabeth was right; this was a second chance, and he had her to thank for that. Would he have come here if it wasn't for her? Somehow he doubted it; he wouldn't have had the guts. But even though his dream of a second chance with her hadn't worked out, this was still a new world. The chance to rebuilt humanity anew, and his life along with it.

And a last chance to piece his shattered heart back together.


End file.
